


I'll Be Damned

by starzaya



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starzaya/pseuds/starzaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The relationship between Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree was nothing short of complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was told I must.
> 
> So I did.
> 
> Not edited much; another case of just typing. I got really spacey towards the end, that's why it FUCKING SUCKS. ;o;
> 
> Really self indulgent, if I must say the least.

The relationship between Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree was nothing short of complicated. They both found each other obnoxious, most of the time. These differences hadn't been overcome, but had more so been ignored in the fret of war and battles. Set aside for the parts of each other they did like. Hanzo liked Jesse's _good_ humor, levelheadedness (in most situations), and selflessness. Jesse liked Hanzo's sense of honor, patience, and how surprisingly well he could keep a conversation going. It was easy for them to talk to one another, and even easier to argue like husband and wife. They both bristled like a provoked porcupine, a shared weakness, when put against each other. Male dominance and opposites being opposites had a major impact, too.

But opposites also attract, yes?

Perhaps that is the reason why Hanzo finds himself drawn to the frivolous cowboy. A little bit too drawn, but those feelings cannot be acted upon. No, no, they are definitely not returned. Hanzo cannot have relationships, anyways. Ex-yakuza, mercenary, and currently fighting in a war he shamefully followed his brother, Genji into, interpersonal relationships would make this harder than they needed to be. Having friendships among each other was enough; any more and the protectiveness would cost a life they could not afford. 

Hanzo cannot help but feel that maybe his past is affecting his future a bit too much. Changing his perspective on things and making him feel needless ache. It could all be blamed on the anxiety from being disgustingly lovesick with somebody who was covered in grit and dust, wore the shit-eating smile as much as he wore his ragged serape. Pathetic, really. How had he let himself be lured into this trap? He had thought of himself as clever, but his weakness of being deprived of care for his entire life and finally being shown affection,  _somewhat_ , proved more tricky than he thought.

It was a whole other mess of confusing, since Jesse was Hanzo's "partner". Bodyguard, more like, since Hanzo preferred to nock his arrow and carefully aim, before letting it fly deep, deep into the battlefield and straight into the soft, weak temple of his target. When people tried to take him out, Jesse had made it his duty to not only put his sharpshooter skills to use with Hanzo, but to protect them both from flanks. A seamless duo. Both of them had singlehandedly won battles before, and had even cleared out mass hideouts of professionals.

It was rare that Hanzo was not paired up with McCree.

It was one of those rare occasions, though.

Jesse had been called on a solo mission, apparently to a take out the remnants of a gang that, at the name, Jesse openly winced at. The messenger looked more smug than Jesse ever did, and the cowboy only grit his teeth and said "Consider it done,  _mi amigo_." in a passive aggressive tone that both worried and amused Hanzo. It seemed personal, and it didn't take much observation that this was no normal case. This was directed. Thoughtfully planned out and delicately organized.

Said organized mission didn't even need to debrief Jesse much; he knew exactly where to go. He had grunted a "goodbye, sweetheart," teasingly. Hanzo glared. "Don't do anything reckless,  _bakayarō_." Hanzo had mirrored Jesse's use of his native language. A tip of that godawful cowboy hat, and a stressed smile, and Jesse was gone to go on a personal errand.

The safehouse Jesse and Hanzo had been allotted and, quite unwillingly, forced to share, made everything just a bit more complicated, but it was the only place Hanzo had to stay in while he was in this mess. Annoyingly, he found himself glad that this would be the first place Jesse would come after he was finished. Hanzo would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about McCree, and lie he did, against the will of his tongue, just to keep his pride. It was hard to swallow something like his pride, something so greatly valued, so he didn't.

Busying himself with fine-tuning his arrows, sharpening the arrowheads that were dull after battle, he sat at the table he had so many times eaten alone. Jesse preferred eating on the small couch, or in the bedroom. Reflecting, Hanzo almost smiled at memories of chastising Jesse for making a mess. Hanzo's fingers went on mindlessly, as he felt anxiety ebb at him. It had been about a week and then some. The missionary said it would only take a few days. His weapon, his lifeline, could not even distract him from self-deprecating and worry about everything he had gotten himself too deep into.

How did he let himself get this...low?  _Pathetic_. He thought, dismally.  _Utterly pathetic_.

The symphony of half-hearted regret was broke by the ring of the phone, frighteningly close. Jesse had changed it to some upbeat J-Pop. Hanzo had no comment on this.

Fumbling, he grasped around, beside his work space, to grab the cellphone he had been permitted for emergency/off-duty contact. Something in his gut told him to frantically answer this, it was important. His instincts had rarely been wrong. Grasping the phone, he flubbed a little bit more, until he answered the call.

The first sound, he heard, was gunshots.

Loud, alarming, immediately rushing controlled adrenaline into his veins. An influx of worry and dread filled his head, as he tried to quell the panic. The number had definitely been McCree's. He was in the heat of battle. Some gunshots rang so close in the phone's microphone, as well as labored breathing, that it made Hanzo's ears hurt. He didn't have his earplugs on, of course, so he wasn't ready for such sharp noises. Flinching away from the phone, he struggled to find words. The usually prepared man was brought to a graceless mess.

"Jesse?" Hanzo tried, somehow keeping his tone smooth and normal. A chuckle was heard, in response, and a flurry of more gunshots and a single curse came crashing through the speaker. He kept it close, to his ear, since that one laugh had been so quiet, the actual words would probably the same.

"Hey, darlin'," The pet name was not unusual, but the tone in it made the entire meaning change. Teasing was long gone. Hanzo felt his heart stop. "I love you."

Hanzo's world stopped, his breath caught, and he didn't even have time to react further than that, when the line cut.

Shock kept him still, made his lungs burn as his brain malfunctioned in pure, electric realization. Hopeless rushes of emotion and adrenaline flooded everything, made the world around him seem not so important. Hanzo's first instinct was to pack up his bow, and go help, save, collect. But he had no idea where the hell Jesse was in the world, if he could get there in time, if he even  _had_ the time and resources. It wasn't worth it, he couldn't go after something so petty such as  _love_ and dive into death. One cynical death was enough. 

It took a while for his heart to beat again, and when it did, it pounded in time with his head. Like a time bomb, a grenade, which took form in tears and were stinging his eyes as he fought off the explosion. Lungs working a little bit too fast; it hurt a little whenever he exhaled, but maybe that was just in his head. Everything started to hurt, to burn, especially his heart, every beat was like a slight reminder of--

God, how utterly  _deplorable_.

How could let this be this affecting him?

It was probably fine. Jesse was capable. More than he was, in those kinds of situations. He was being silly. He went back to his arrows, shaken. Everything was brushed off, as he blocked himself into a realm of unthinking.

Fruitless, were his attempts to tell himself to stop being so inexcusably intolerable, as within three days he got a notice saying that Jesse McCree was missing in action. MIA. The scene was full of dead bodies, some of which unidentified, but none of which look to be McCree yet. There was a lot of blood, and a blasted cellphone that was in bits. That was a bittersweet detail.

After reading that, Hanzo found it hard to think. As if a haze had been placed over his brain, everything becoming numb, nerves sleeping.

There was no doubt about it. McCree was very likely to be dead. His last words were probably the phone call, and maybe one or two snarky sentences in an attempt to accept the inevitable. That was hard to swallow.

These past few days had been frantic. Hanzo found it easy to sleep.

He found it even easier to not get up again. And again. And over again. The bed seemed welcoming. It accepted mourning, his shame, his remorse. Ego shattered as he became a pathetic, bewildered mess. This. This is why you don't create bonds with those around you in lives such as his own. Everybody he knows will always, and will continue to die. How could he have been so stupid, to think this would have been any different?

It would never be, it couldn't be.

The words, the probably last words Hanzo would ever hear Jesse say, over the sounds of gunshots and tired breaths, replayed over and over in Hanzo's mind, like a mantra to what he wanted to desperately put behind him because it wasn't worth it, anymore. How many days had passed, how many months, he should be over this. Why was this time so hard?

"Hey, darlin'," Hanzo really liked pet names. He would never admit it, but he didn't dislike them as much as she showed. They were nice, and he think Jesse could see past it.

"I love you." Was it true? Or was it in the heat of death? Useless words? Probably the latter. Jesse seemed kind of sensitive to all topics relating to same-sex relationships. The other meaning to this was not something important. Jesse was just some thick-headed American.

This was all so  _silly_.

 He has been moping in bed, for however long it has been. Hanzo felt useless. Depressed. His limbs were too heavy.

Everything seemed so far away, so blurry, so hazy. Grief stricken and pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.  _Pathetic_.

That was all he was, right now.

Hanzo had probably been asleep for days, now, or at least, half asleep, paralyzed to the world. What awoke him was a knock at the door. Probably a notice of Jesse's death. Or another mission. If the first one, he wasn't going to move for another week. The last one, probably the same outcome. Soaking in misery and self-pity was cathartic. It was what he deserved. He deserved to be here, accept it, revel in how idiotic he had been.

Not wanting to leave whatever living person out there waiting, he simply yelled:

"The door is unlocked."

And the response, the damn  _response_ , made everything in his world seem a bit more complicated, a bit more troublesome, but for the love of all things holy he bolted upright in bed, tear stained face full of a sick mix of excitement and resentment.

"Not even a hello,  _darlin'?_ "

 


	2. McCree Needs 500 Hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have asked, so I will deliver.
> 
> Warning for:  
> \- Abuse? Sort of. Hanzo gets _really_ angry.  
>  \- Bad kissing scenes because I can't write them for the life of me  
> \- Bad writing in general

Hanzo was paralyzed for a moment, despite the overwhelming feeling of electric emotions coursing through his veins. Everything was silent, leading him to believe it might have been a dream, but it was too vivid to be one. Reality was the only thing he felt: sweat, drying tears, and the effects of not taking care of himself appropriately for days. Sheets were entwined around what was left of his legs, suddenly very constricting around his waist. The shock holding his body started to ebb away, and he made use of that immediately, untangling himself out of the blankets. 

He has never put on his prosthesis so fast. 

Not even trying to approach  _him_ calmly, Hanzo practically trips his way out of the room and into the living room. He hasn't worn his prosthesis in days, and the frayed connection to reality made it feel like he hasn't worn them in weeks. Staggering over, he actually falls, and doesn't even have time to be upset over that when he is enveloped in heat. It stops at an odd place, but that's more comforting than not. Arms are wrapped around him, and he's steadied by no one other than Jesse McCree, who immediately moves his metal hand to cradle the back of Hanzo's head, in a comforting motion.

Embarrassment makes him unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Jesse does not speak, either. He is merely there, embracing a trembling Hanzo, not saying a word. Tears don't come, for the first time in a few weeks. Sobs were spent; all that was left was the accepting, relieved silence that  _both_ of them were alright.

It was easy to tell, even when he couldn't see much, even after turning his head out of the shirt to stare into nothingness, that Jesse had been worried about Hanzo, of all things. It was the protective hold, the few, nearly inaudible deep breaths mostly noticed by the rising and falling in his chest. The feeling in the air shouted it, too, as loud as it could, in a whisper.

Said feeling was a mix of callous reactions to the generous hug, reprieve, and...nothing. Emptiness.

Said feeling also included uneasiness swept under the rugs of Hanzo's mind.

Time seems to pass slowly, until Hanzo is able to force out, through his overwhelmingly poignant behavior:

"Hello." He swallows a lump back, in this throat. "It's been a while, has it not?" The tone stayed nonchalant, for the most part; he was hoarse from weeks of barely eating, drinking, living, and shameful crying. 

"Yeah, yeah, it has." Jesse answered, quietly. His confidence that he usually carried around with him more than his hat was lowered. Vulnerable. As if he was just teetering on the brink of crying, too, but couldn't.  _Wouldn't_.

Hanzo's arms, formerly left limp by his sides, moved to fist Jesse's shirt. Body armor was gone, and so was that beloved serape of his. Did he even have his hat on? If Jesse had lost those, Hanzo almost smiled at the thought of Jesse falling into the same depression that held him in an iron grip for weeks, for something so frivolous. The silly situation in his mind faded, fleeted as quickly as it came, when a mix of fury and sadness made his grip even tighter around the fabric.

"Didn't I say something about not being a reckless idiot?" Borderline growling, Hanzo felt the anger bubble up, not stopping at the top and spilling over.

He pulled out of the hold, a pang of regret thrust into his heart but was replaced with rage, as his hand unballed from the shirt to slap Jesse "Cowboy" McCree right across the face, as hard as he could manage to a... _friend_. A red handprint was already visible, and Jesse wiped his lip and glanced at the blood on his hand. He said nothing. Licked his lips once, no doubt tasting the blood from the brutal smack.

"Why would you proceed to be a reckless moron? Are you that stubborn and infantile that you have to risk your life to go against my word?!" Hanzo shoved Jesse, who just took the harm again. A smile, albeit small, but still a smile that was both smug and sad took place for a more fitting frown. Jesse never frowned, why would be now?

Continuing to push Jesse, abuse him, in uncontrollable anger, he kept shouting awful things at the cowboy, that he didn't have time to resent:

"You are a fool!"

"How could you be so inconsiderate?"

" _I hate you_."

"You should have died out there, you deserved it for all you put me through!"

" _I hate you_!"

"Do you ever learn?!"

"The goddamned phone is blasted to bits, I can barely fucking stand, and you, you are grinning like the egotistical, contemptible moron you are!"

"Why are you laughing?!"

" _I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate y_ \--"

McCree had ended up all the way at the wall, cornered by Hanzo's symphony of yells, his black eyes fueled with (halfhearted, heat of the moment) undisciplined chagrin. Jesse had also begun to laugh, somewhat, and it wasn't until he grabbed Hanzo's fully on yukata, leaned over and messily pressed his lips against a suddenly wide eyed Hanzo, that Hanzo realized Jesse had begun to cry.

It wasn't until Hanzo's hands fervently threw themselves into Jesse's hair, throwing the hat to the floor, that Hanzo noticed how much heartache was lifted. His eyes closed, and this time, not to sleep. He ignored the taste of wet metal in Jesse's mouth, also ignoring the grief that came with it.

An unscathed, save for the missing armor and poncho, Jesse McCree was in front of him. As giggly and childish as ever. All Hanzo's anxiety, mourning had been for nothing, but for once, he couldn't care less. 

The burning coals of anger faded away, as Hanzo pulled Jesse closer, minimizing the space between them. Mostly everything disappeared. The world around them melted, feelings disintegrated. Everything.

Save for the feeling of respite and affection. Jesse's hands were still bunched up in the usually half-off yukata, pulling the other man upwards. One of his hands, the organic one, moved up to Hanzo's cheek in a sappy expression, his metal one staying to keep Hanzo close, as if Hanzo was the only handle left on reality he could touch. Jesse took Hanzo's bottom lip and softly bit it, upping the tension and the blood rushing to Hanzo's burning cheeks and ears.

Hot tears could be felt, rolling down Jesse's cheeks, but it became apparent that both parties had given in to sobbing. 

McCree pulled away, reluctantly, and it took all of Hanzo's self control to not chase after the other's lips, but instead just accept the new embrace. Protectively, McCree pulled him closer, letting out ragged breaths, chest heaving. Slowly, they both calmed down, resting in each other's arms, assured.

_What does that make us, now?_

It took a while, for them to speak again. Hanzo voiced his thoughts.

"What...what does..." He found it hard to find the words. "What does this mean?"

"I dunno, what do ya want it to mean?" Jesse asked, sounding unsure, himself. Any evidence they had been crying resided in tired drawls, coarse, like sandpaper.

"What  _should_ it mean?" Gingerly, Hanzo referenced his opinion (I want you to mean what you said) by tightening his grip on  Jesse.

"Well, I kinda wanna keep bein' able to kiss ya." It was barely a whisper, much quieter than anything Jesse has ever said, save for on the battlefield. "You?"

"What." 

"What are your opinions on me continuing to do," Jesse bent over to give Hanzo a quick peck on the lips. "this."

"I...have no complaints. The exact opposite, really."

This time, Hanzo initiated the kiss, reinforcing his statement. Once again, his hands went into that brunette mess of hair, that was tangled in presumed weeks of not being  ~~forced~~ able to brush his chin-length hair. Jesse's hands went down to Hanzo's hips, and he could feel Jesse smile a bit, as Jesse tilted his head. A warmth tightened the noose around his heart, making him feel childishly giddy.

However, that disappeared as soon as his thumb brushed over something soft, smooth. While Jesse's skin was surprisingly delicate, this was abnormally so. 

Hanzo pulled away, eliciting a confused sound from Jesse, as Hanzo's face furrowed in his own confusion. Inspecting what he had touched, his eyes widened as he realized what it was.

There lay a scar that looked very much like a forcefully, unusually swiftly healed over bullet wound. Another one, roughly the same diameter and shape was on the other side of Jesse's  _forehead_. 

This kind of scar tissue was thick, but hastily and therefore messily covering what wound used to lay there. Hanzo had many of these scars of his own, while to a much lower caliber, he knew exactly where these came from.

 _Angela Zielger_. 

"Er--"

"I thought Doctor Zielger was in Switzerland. Were you in Switzerland?" Hanzo's voice dropped low, deep, serious.

"No, 'course not--" Jesse was interrupted, once more. 

"Then how did she revive you? I thought that was a solo mission." His tone was turning volatile, frustrated. While glad that, yes, Jesse is alive and well, something was reeking of suspicion. The uneasiness that had been in the back of his mind was creeping towards the front.

"It was!"

"Then how?!"

"You're makin' this into a bigger deal then it has to be, Hanzo." It was a weak attempt, to get Hanzo to calm down. Jesse noticed this, and his face fell into a frown unfitting for the usually smiling man.

"If this is not a big deal, then why won't you tell me how she revived you?" Countered Hanzo, glaring in a way that made Jesse look like he felt smaller, even though he stood several inches above the ex-yakuza.

"She ain't allowed to revive people off head-on war. It wastes the juice that costs too much to make. And ever since the Reyes incident..." Jesse trailed off.

"I already know all of this, Jesse. That is not a how. _How_?" His voice was rising into a yell.

"They found my dead body miles away from the  _Deadlocks_ hideout." Finally, McCree conformed, explanation finally arising. "I ain't no nobody agent. Angela said she wanted to do an autopsy, 'cuz I sure as hell didn't die from this bullet. My...my brain was still all there. No bullet went through my head. Still dead as a fish, though." Hanzo's breath began to catch, as he struggled to not cry again. It was so easy, now, to give in to inexcusable sobs, but he couldn't. His head rested on Jesse's shoulder, as he wished for this to not be real.

"So most of the time, the weeks, were them deliverin' my dead body to Switz'. It only took...three days? Somethin' like that, for Angela to do the "autopsy". Blamed it on a poison that made me look dead. Said they didn't do the life check good 'nuff. Hey, she's the doc', she knows best. She don't know how I died, though. Least, she won't tell me."

Hanzo knew it. Distaste flooded him immediately. He had kissed a living corpse, risen by Angela's despicable device, off duty. That fact could almost be excused by the fact that it was Jesse McCree. It could almost be excused by the fact that he still would kiss McCree if he had only been risen from Angela's on duty resurrection tech. But something about this time, the implied nature that he had been cut open, torn apart, and then hooked up to the more formal resurrection machine, was so utterly nauseating.

It made disgust bubble up in his throat, and he didn't even hesitate to push away. Didn't even second guess himself, for once again shoving McCree away from him, when McCree tried to comfort. Everything he had just felt; love, sorrow, anger; melded into just anger. Anger at himself, for his emotions, and what he had done with them. 

How could he have let this happen?

"Don't  _touch_ me!" Hanzo shoved the heel of his palm into McCree's chin, when McCree's hand ghosted by his arm.

He had never seen the cowboy look so hurt before.

Today, he also made a new record for himself, for grabbing his bow from its hiding place, under the kitchen table, at nearly breakneck speed.

"No, no, Hanzo, wait--" McCree knew all too well what was going to happen.

But it was too late.

Hanzo had unlocked the front door. He only cast a look of resentment McCree's way,

before thrusting open the door and leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns* (^:
> 
>  
> 
> ~~i'm done. i'm fucking done. nope. bye. i can't. why did i write this. this hurts. it hurts. i hurt.~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm not editing this. this part was really hard to come up with and i just decided to shove it out. i hope it's not as shitty as i'm telling myself. the next chapter should be better, now that i'm passed this.

_Angela Ziegler stared deep into a microscope, staring into the blood of the fallen agent. She couldn't put her finger on it-- something was wrong. Very very wrong. It was in her gut, something she didn't trust often, but now, at a loss for what the cause of death was, it would have to be trusted. Everything looked normal. She wasn't a world renowned scientist for nothing; she knew suspicious when she saw it. This reeked, in the way she had to plug her nose and confirming she was in the right direction._

_Something caught her attention; an anomaly. Ah, there it was._

_Zooming in on it, she started to realize what had happened._

* * *

 

 

_"So what killed me, doc?"_

_"Looking in on it. Return home, Jesse. Take it easy. Doctor's orders!"_

_"Was it a poison?"  
_

_"Go home, McCree. There's a plane outside waiting for you. You're lucky you're getting this for free!" A pause. "...This time."_

_"Not til I know how I kicked the bucket. At least an idea. Please, Doc? It's killin' me."_

_"It isn't in my system of lethal poison."_

_"Some new thing? Talon poison?"_

_"Not quite. Think anti-life."_

_"Kinda stuff Amari-senior used?"_

_"Maybe. I don't know. Please return home before they really think you're dead. Remember to pay me!"_

_"Eh, I'm gettin' there. Thanks, doc."_

_"Don't go killing yourself, yeah?"_

_"Heh, you too. See ya, Ziegler."_

 

* * *

 

_"So what killed ya, 'cree?"_

_"_ Mc _Cree, thanks. And, uh, nothin'. You guys need to brush up on your first aid."_

_"Systems said you were dead. Don't worry: I'm not gonna rat Angela out."_

_"Systems lied, then. I frankly remember dreamin' of some pretty ladies."_

_"Men too?"_

_"Never change, do ya?"_

_"Ha! Not often, no."_

_"So how's the husband holdin' up? Heard he got into a nasty explosion."_

_"He's doing fine. He'll live. Sorta. Gonna go home to him when I'm done. We're going to go enjoy the pretty sites of a VR beach."_

_"Nice-- wait, why we takin' off three hours before schedule?"_

_"Angela's orders."_

_"Oh? Huh...really?"_

_"You don't sound surprised."_

_"I ain't." The ground disappeared. "...I ain't."_

 

* * *

 

 

_"You weren't meant to survive."_

_"Oh, hey-- wait, I wasn't?"_

_"Those weren't gang members. You had to have realized that."_

_"Yeah, course I did. But what the fuck, A?"_

_"Clueless as always. Reyes sends his condolences."_

_"Oh, you sonuvabitch. Get your ass over here!"_

_"I'll see you again, perhaps, too soon._  Au revoir _,_ cherie _."_

_"...Fuck."_

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn't take long for Hanzo to be found.

He doesn't know what he was thinking, really. Probably wasn't, based on how he ended up where he would be found certainly. In the old safehouse, the one that got raided by spies, the one that is set to be destroyed as soon as someone gives the say-so. How he ended up here was a mystery: everything went by as he blocked out everything. In fact, he was still blocking everything out, as he was expressionless, even as a metal arm left its mark on his neck. Eyes closed, head back and trying to move to get it off his throat, he tried his best to keep the defense up.

It was uncomfortable, with all it's weird indents and markings. The skull pressed up under his chin, harshly, as it audibly whirred if Hanzo listened closely enough. His windpipe was constricted, air struggling to make its way into his lungs and showing itself through labored breathing. Hot breath hit his chin, and he tried not to show anything. He was preparing to shove this  _disgrace_ away from him, but right now he couldn't find it in him to do so.

Was he even doing the right thing?

"So this is how it ends? I die, and you run away 'cuz I ain't me anymore?!" Nothing has ever matched the amount of pain in McCree's voice right now. It nearly finds its way into Hanzo's own mind, fueling the angry fire of regrets and despair working its way to the front of his head.

He has no excuse for what he has done. He is selfish. And even though he feels the regrets, he does not regret it. Everything that comes forth he accepts.

"God, do you think I wanted to fuckin' die? And when I did, did ya think I wanted to come back?! There ain't no honor in takin' what isn't mine anymore."

"Then stop--" Hanzo struggled to get words out. "--taking it."

"Doc told me not to, so I ain't gonna."

"She creates nothing but destruction."

"Just like she did with your brother, right?" Something in Hanzo's chest tightened. He shifted weights, prepared to flee.

"Do not." The metallic force on his neck started to dig in deeper. A malicious intent filled the air. Hanzo never understood how somebody could get this upset over something so petty,  _love_.

"That bothers you, don't it? How she also got you out of a wheelchair? How she hasn't done a speck a' wrong in her life, and you live in a misery?!" McCree started getting too close, too harsh, and he was sure he heard crying in his voice. "Yeah, you just have to be that guy, don't you?"

Hanzo pushed, staggering forward when McCree stumbled back. He opened his eyes, and was not surprised to see McCree jittery, a sweaty mess, revolver fallen to the floor. Going backwards, ready to run again, words stopped him:

"I still love through, through all this fuckin' bullshit. How fucked up is that?" The vines around Hanzo's heart tightened. They went to his lungs, and suddenly the choking seemed like nothing. He freezes, and more tears threaten to hit his eyes. Emotions flood everything, and he doesn't want to deal with this anymore.

So he didn't.

Again, he was at the door, casting a glance back, silent. For the second time today, he was staring at McCree with something like a solution of regret, love, and resentment.

"Yeah, just leave again. I'll follow you to the end of the world, baby--"

Hanzo left, shut the door, but he could still hear the rest of the sentence haunt him through the walls of not only the building but his skull.

"--there ain't nothin' stoppin' me from leaving you."

**Author's Note:**

> Contact me at:  
> <http://starzaya.tumblr.com>


End file.
